we look through a single window at one of the world’s many tragedies and are touched so deeply that we are forever changed. That happened to me when I met Ayuel Leek Deng and Beny Ngor Chol and heard their incredible story.
I knew Sudan was in Africa, but I had not been aware of the civil war between the North and the South, in which more than two million Sudanese had died and even more displaced. The war was still raging in 2001 when I first learned of the so-called Lost Boys of Sudan. Since I rarely miss a news cycle and am especially interested in global situations, I was shocked to learn that thousands of displaced children had walked for months across Sudan’s barren land, menaced by starvation, disease, wild animals and shrapnel from their own government’s helicopter fire. The world community made little effort to relieve their suffering. Though the peace accord was signed in 2005, a similar crisis has erupted in Darfur. Fortunately, this situation is receiving media coverage.
In 2001, when several of the Lost Boys—who had spent their childhoods in refugee camps—arrived in Kansas City, churches and community groups sought out mentors to help them adjust. I signed up. It soon became clear to me that these young men had goals in mind. Education was the first priority, followed by letting the world know about the plight of their country. They saw themselves as “seeds of a new Sudan.” You will understand why as you read this book. Ayuel and Beny asked me to write their story to get their message out—that there is a monumental crisis in Sudan. They and other refugees plan to do all they can, but their country also needs the resources of the rest of the world to help solve it.
This book presents the struggles of Ayuel and Beny, which, in some measure, reflect the universal experiences of millions of others.
My aim is to personalize the consequences of worldwide conflicts by showing how Ayuel, Beny and their friends dealt not only with the physical challenges, but also with the spiritual dimension of anger, revenge, faith and forgiveness.
My portion of the proceeds will be donated to the Greater Kansas City Lost Boys Network, Inc., a foundation that offers support and financial assistance to Lost Boys across the area.
—Barbara Youree
ONE
GRIEF AND JOY
“ Something’s wrong over there,” Ayuel said as he and Beny Ngor Chol Swalked down the dirt path toward the bulletin board in the refugee camp. “Wonder why all those people are headed to the riverbank.”
“Maybe someone’s going to make a speech,” suggested Beny, yet unaware of the anxiety Ayuel was feeling about the gathering crowd. “It’s probably too early for ‘The List’ to go up anyway. Come, let’s see what’s going on.”
The two young men turned from the International Rescue Committee office where they were headed and quickened their steps toward the dry riverbed. Miles of mud and straw huts dotted the vast plateau near the equator, home to orphaned children and a fewer number of intact families—80,000 in all. In this desolate place in Kenya, Africa, only a few scrub trees survived—much like the fading hopes of the forgotten inhabitants.
Ayuel and Beny joined several people running toward the happening at the riverbank. The sound of pounding feet—unaccompanied by voices—lent an eerie foreboding to the stillness. A breeze swirled dust in the warm morning air. The screech of a single hawk drew Ayuel’s eyes upward as he watched the raptor swoop low, flap its wings and soar again. Then, something else silhouetted against the emerging rays of sunlight. The excitement he’d felt about searching for his name on The List melted into horror. Beny saw it at the same time, and both young men stopped and stared.
There, suspended from a high limb of the tallest tree on the bank, hung a body, limp like a dead bird.
A flash of light, then another, recorded what had happened. Why do they have to do that? As the cameraman stepped back, two other workers from the International Rescue Committee came forward with a stepladder.
“Who is it—this time?” Ayuel whispered to another friend of his, who stood at the edge of the crowd. Ayuel, a sensitive young man with fine features, felt his mouth dry and his breath come in short jerks.
“Majok Bol. He’s from Zone Two Minor.”
And from the Bor region where I’m from. And Dinka too, like me. He remembered the tall, quiet boy with the charming smile.
As the two officers cut the rope and gently lowered the body, murmurs rose from the group of onlookers.
“Majok was our best soccer player…”
“Always a good sport.”
“He was the smartest in our group,” a boy said through quiet sobs.
But no one asked why. They knew. All of them had thought about it at one time or another. Suicides didn’t happen often, but when they did, those who had passed their childhood here in the refugee camp were left traumatized.
As the men carried the body away, the crowd dispersed—some crying softly, others hissing angry words between their teeth, or just gazing blankly into their own hopeless futures.
Ayuel and Beny stood facing each other—shocked and devastated—not knowing what to say. Ayuel looked down at the spiral notebook he still carried in his hand. It contained the math notes he’d gotten up early that morning to study. Why didn’t I know? His after-school social work included suicide counseling to those showing signs. No one had alerted him.
Now, he recalled the day that first posting had gone up. He saw Majok leaving just as he’d come to check for his own name. Majok had muttered something about it being hopeless to expect to see his name. Ayuel had tried to encourage him by saying there would be more listings and he was well-qualified. Why didn’t I take his comment more seriously?
The sound of a stapler pounding the wooden bulletin board by the IRC office interrupted their sadness. Ayuel knew the posting meant ninety more names of lucky ones on The List. Since applying two years ago for refugee status in the United States of America, he had lived with the tension of hope. He knew some of the previously chosen ones who had already flown away to the western world, a fantasy place he could only read about—where ordinary people lived in enormous painted houses, drove big shiny cars, got fat from abundant food, and education was free for everyone.
The woman he loved and hoped to marry someday had left on the very first flight. She had gone to the United States. If ever he were chosen, he might be sent to Australia, the Netherlands, Canada or—if he were really lucky—the United States. Since that was a very big country, would he even be able to find her?
“You’re going to see if your name’s on it, aren’t you?” Beny asked. Thoughtful and introspective, the event visibly distressed him, but he was also practical.
“Not yet,” Ayuel responded. “Let’s find out what they’re talking about.” IRC workers and several young men huddled together under the tree. A few wide-eyed younger children looked on.
As Beny and Ayuel approached, they recognized one young man who sobbed uncontrollably, standing just outside the huddle. The man had shared sleeping quarters with Majok. Ayuel put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I heard Majok get up—about midnight—and leave our tukul. I just went back to sleep.” The man
